The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (138 page)

"Here, Your Grace, take this."
Richard turned, startled, at sound of a woman's voice. She'd come noiselessly through the trees, materializing like some woodland sprite, and most improbably of all, what she was holding out to him was a chunk of freshly baked bread.
Richard stared at the bread and then burst into laughter. "I would that all my wishes were so readily granted!" He broke off the crust, tossed it into the grass, where it was at once claimed and devoured.
The squirrel sat up, crumbs clinging to its whiskers and chest, set about cleaning itself like a cat, accepting the offering of this unknown benefactress with utter equanimity. Richard was more curious, however, beckoned her closer.
He saw at once why he'd not noticed her approach; she wore widow's black, seemed to be cloaked in night. As moonlight fell across her face, Richard's interest quickened. She was not beautiful in the strict sense of the word, but it was not a face to be forgotten, sharply chiseled cheekbones and generously curved mouth, a face as familiar as it was exotic.
"I know you, don't I?" he said, and she nodded shyly. Suddenly self-conscious, she handed him another piece of bread, said with a breathless laugh, "I suppose you're wondering why I happened to be toting a basket of bread about the gardens at this time of night?"
Richard smiled, shook his head. "I've never been one to question luck," he said and, much to his delight, was able to coax the squirrel into feeding from his hand.
"Actually, I was bringing it to you, Your Grace." She lifted the covering on the basket, showing him half a dozen neatly wrapped loaves. "I meant to leave them with Master Kendall, was told he might have time to see me after Compline."
At mention of his secretary's name, Richard remembered where he'd seen her before. About a fortnight ago she'd come to the castle seeking an audience. It was not a day when he'd been hearing petitioners but he'd agreed to see her to oblige Kendall, who'd argued that "the lass be one of our own, Your Grace, Yorkshire born and bred!" Her husband had been steward for one of Edward's manors in Cumbria, and his death some two years ago had left her and their children in financial straits. Richard had arranged for her to receive a pension from the issues of the lordship of Warwick and thought no more about it. But he was touched now that she'd thought to show her gratitude in this particularly Yorkshire fashion; the city of
York had often presented him with swans and pike and wine, and it had not been at all uncommon for grateful petitioners to bring gifts of food to Middleham.

She came closer, confided, "I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw you sitting alone like this. I guess
I just took it for granted that you always had scores of people in attendance!"
"And they're most likely tracking me down even now," Richard said wryly. "May I count on you not to give me away?"
She dimpled, nodded, and he made room on the turf seat, saying, "But I'm not finding myself to be good company tonight. It would please me greatly if you sat down and talked with me awhile of Yorkshire."
He soon discovered that she knew a number of his friends, Tom Wrangwysh and the Metcalfes and
York's current Lord Mayor. She was indeed Yorkshire-bred, knew the dales of Wensley as well as he did, and they found that they shared a special fondness for Aysgarth Falls, argued whether the most scenic view in Yorkshire was to be found from Sutton Bank or from Penhill, and agreed that the Corpus
Christi plays performed in York were equal in all respects to those acted out in Coventry and Chester.
Realizing at last that the castle gates must have long since been shut, Richard assured her that he'd see she had an escort back to her inn, and she thanked him warmly, but neither stirred. Somewhere a dog was barking. The squirrels had long since disappeared. It had been a welcome respite, but Richard found that his troubles could be kept at bay only so long, and his mind began to fill again with thoughts of the coming confrontation with Tudor.
Would Stanley go over openly to Tudor? Or would he wait out the battle, making ready to do homage to whoever won? As for Stanley's drink-sodden braggart of a brother, the odds were that he was already in
Tudor's camp; Will Stanley was Chief Justice of North Wales and yet Tudor had passed through the
Cambrian Mountains like a hot knife through butter. Thank Christ for Jack Howard and for Francis, for the men he could trust. If only he could be as sure of Northumberland! It be one thing to tread lightly, but
Northumberland did endeavor to leave no footprints at all. Only once in the past twelve years had he thrown in his lot when the issue was still in doubt, at the time of Buckingham's rebellion. As Warden of the Marches toward Scotland, Northumberland had the responsibility of issuing summons to arms for the
North, should have been in Nottingham days ago. So why wasn't he?
"Your Grace . . . might I say something of a personal nature?" His companion had been watching him in silence for some moments, now said rather diffidently, "It's not my place to say this, but you look so bone-weary, like a man who's forgotten what it be like to get a decent night's rest. Once you do deal with Tudor, I think you should come North, come home for a good long while."
Richard knew she meant well, but she'd touched a nerve, nonethe-

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less. Middleham had been the only home he'd ever known, but he'd not be able to go back, would never be able to sleep alone in the bed he'd shared with Anne. He rose abruptly, moved into the shadows of the nearest tree, an oak that had been old even before he was born.
At once contrite, she followed. "I just knew I shouldn't have spoken out, but you did look so ... so sad.
I'm sorry, truly I am. Do you want me to go?"
Richard turned to face her, reached out and touched her cheek. "No," he said, "I don't want you to go,"
and realized even as he said it that he was no longer talking about the garden. His hand lingered on her face; her skin was soft and suddenly flushed. He felt no less unsure himself. It had been so long since he'd sought to coax a woman to his bed; for nigh on fourteen years there'd been only Anne.
"You're very fair," he said softly and, when she smiled, he saw that there was no need to say more. She came into his arms as if she belonged there, warm and perfumed and very real.
CANDLES still burned; in their haste, they'd not taken time to put them out. The light was shining in
Richard's eyes, and it was that which at last motivated him to move. Lifting his weight off her body, he rolled over onto his back. It was ungodly hot; where the sheet touched his skin it stuck. After a time, he leaned over. But she averted her face, whether by accident or design, and his lips just brushed her cheek.
He frowned; was she regretting now that she'd sinned?
"Rosamund?"
She opened her eyes; they were an intriguing color neither completely blue nor green. "At the last," she said, very low, "you . . . you did call me Anne."
Her hair cascaded over the pillows, all but covered one breast; it was darker than Anne's, but a pretty color, nonetheless. He touched it, twined a strand around his fingers, and at last, said the only thing he could. "I'm sorry."
Blue-green eyes searched his face. "Do you want me to go?" she offered uncertainly, just as she had in the garden.
He did, but he could not bring himself to tell her so. She was no harlot, did not deserve to be dismissed like one now that his need had been satisfied. "I'd like you to stay," he lied. It occurred to him now, as it had not in the garden, to question her willingness to share his bed; would she have felt free to deny the
King? It was suddenly very important to him that he be sure, and he said awkwardly, "Rosamund, what happened between us ... well, it was not planned; you know that. But I didn't ask of you more than you wanted to give?"

She moved back into his arms, raised her head from his shoulder to give him a quizzical smile. "Of course not!" Surer of herself now, she kissed the corner of his mouth and then laughed. "Though in truth, I still can't quite believe I'm here, in your bed. If anyone had ever told me that I'd meet a man in a summer garden, a man I knew not at all, and would be making love with that man just hours later ... I could as soon have imagined myself walking from Micklegate Bar to the Minster clad only in my kirtle!" She laughed again. "But then, you're not just a man I met in a garden, are you?"
Richard said nothing, not until she sat upright in bed, pointed toward the open window. "Did you see? A
shooting star!"
He hadn't, but nodded obligingly, watched with a smile as she shut her eyes like a little girl, her lips moving in silent supplication. He wondered what she'd wished, knew without having to consider at all what his own wish would have been, for a night of untroubled sleep, a night free of dreams of Anne.
As tired as he was, he would have sworn he'd be asleep within minutes, but he was not long in realizing he was in for another long sleepless siege. He was intensely aware of Rosamund; sharing a bed was in a strange way an even greater intimacy than that which had already passed between them. It was too hot a night for physical closeness; he could feel sweat tracking a sticky path down his rib cage, and wherever
Rosamund's body touched his, their skin clung, damp and uncomfortable. Not wanting to disturb her, he moved as little as possible, and as the hours passed the bed began to take on the contours of a prison, the night one unlikely ever to end.
It was well past midnight when Rosamund sat up suddenly, and without saying a word, rose from the bed and moved to the table that held a flagon of night wine and a loaf of bread. Pouring a cupful, she returned to the bed, handed it to Richard.
"I did you no favor by asking you to stay," he said ruefully. "Back at the inn, at least you'd have gotten a tolerable night's sleep."
"My husband often suffered restive nights. I found that by rubbing his back and shoulders, I could sometimes ease his tension, enabling him to sleep." Her voice rose questioningly and Richard nodded gratefully, rolled over onto his stomach.
Her hands played soothingly upon the back of his neck, much as Anne had often done; he sought to put the memory from him, closed his eyes. Rosamund continued her skillful kneading and gradually he began to relax.
"When did you injure your shoulder?" she asked, exploring the line of the break with gentle fingers.
"A long time ago, when I was a boy at Middleham," Richard said,

and had the eerie sensation that he was talking about someone else's life, someone who bore no relationship to him at all.
When he did fall asleep, it was the deep dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. And then it was morning, Rosamund was gone, and the chamber was ablaze in summer sun. His servants were hovering by the bed, looked relieved when he stirred, sat up abruptly.
"What time is it?"
"After nine, my liege."
"Good God," Richard said. He never slept later than six, never.
"We were loathe to disturb you. . . ." The man's voice trailed off; all in his household knew how bad his nights were.
"Your Grace, Viscount Lovell did ask that you be informed as soon as you awakened. Lord Stanley's son did attempt last night to slip away in servant's garb. He's being held under guard, awaiting your will."
1 GEORGE Stanley was Lord Stanley's eldest son and heir, held his title as
Lord Strange by right of his wife, Elizabeth Woodville's niece. He was a mild-mannered man in his mid-twenties, whose most distinguishing feature was a head of flaming red hair, and Rob had promptly dubbed him the "Fox Cub," in deference both to his high color and his father's well developed sense of survival. But the derisive nickname no longer seemed appropriate. Richard had seen foxes run to earth;
the trapped animals invariably turned upon their tormentors with the defiance of desperation. There was no such fight in Stanley. He was sheet-white, clutched a wine cup with both hands, unsteady hands already sticky with wine. At sight of Richard, he sank to his knees, and with the feverish urgency of one seeking absolution through confession, he began a rambling account of conspiracy, treason, and Henry
Tudor.
Richard heard him out in silence, and that seemed to make Stanley all the more nervous. He'd already implicated his uncle, Sir William Stanley; now he admitted, too, that his cousin Sir John Savage was equally mired down in the Tudor plot, watching Richard anxiously all the while, like a schoolboy seeking to see if his answers pleased.
"And your father?"
"I truly can't say, Your Grace. As far as I know, he's not committed himself to Tudor." Stanley's legs were cramping and he started to rise, thought better of it. "My lord, I'm not lying. I've held nothing back.
I know you'd not believe me should I swear my father's loyalties be steadfast." Behind him, he heard someone laugh bitterly at that, but he kept his eyes on Richard.
"But you'd not deny my father does look to his own interests, and right well. To put it bluntly, he's ever been one to play with a marked

deck, and failing that, he'd as soon not play at all. I cannot see him compromising himself with Tudor lest he were utterly sure Tudor would win. Let me write to him, Your Grace. I'll tell him that my life does depend upon his loyalties, that if he joins forces with Tudor, I'll pay the price for it. He'll heed me, Your
Grace, how could he not? Christ Jesus, but I be his firstborn son!"
"Get him pen and paper," Richard said tersely, and Stanley slumped back on his haunches, quivered like a drawn bowstring suddenly gone slack. The letter he finally held out to Richard was ink-blotted, tracked with scratched-out words, and smudged by clumsy fingers, but the message was impossible to misconstrue, a cry for help that came from the heart. Richard handed it back, said, "Seal it."
Stanley complied, using a gold signet ring that adorned his thumb. "Your Grace. . . . I've been honest with you, have freely admitted my part in my uncle's plot. I'll do whatever you want of me, whatever I can to keep my father true to his oath. I deeply regret that I let myself be used; I swear on my mother's soul that it be so. You've been merciful in the past with men less deserving than I. Can you not. . . ?" His plea ebbed away into silence.
"Is that what you be asking of me . . . mercy?" Thomas Stanley was his Lord Constable; he'd made Will
Stanley Chief Justice of North Wales, Constable of Caernarvon Castle. He'd given both men extensive land grants in the wake of Buckingham's rebellion. Stanley's nephew John Savage had also benefited handsomely. Richard looked at the frightened man before him, this man who was wed to a Woodville, a self-confessed traitor, a Stanley.
"Your fate is no longer in my hands. How many tomorrows you have depends upon your father and how he does respond to your letter."
Stanley swallowed. "He'll not betray you, Your Grace."
"You'd best pray not," Richard said grimly, "for if he does, the first life to be forfeit shall be yours."
UPON learning that Tudor had reached Shrewsbury, Richard decided to delay departure from
Nottingham until his scouts could confirm the direction of the rebels' march. That Tuesday he took
Johnny and the men closest to him and rode out to spend the night at Beskwood, a hunting lodge in
Sherwood Forest five miles north of Nottingham. It was there the next noon that John Sponer and John
Nicholson found him. They were men he knew well, had been dispatched by the city of York with an anxious message. It had been common knowledge in York for days that the rebels had landed in the southv/est; why had the King's Grace not issued summons to arms for the city?